


While there's life, there's hope.

by Alistra (ALeaseInWonderland)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, M/M, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, World War II, WorldWarThreesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28693527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALeaseInWonderland/pseuds/Alistra
Summary: Truth be told, if there’s a more stubborn fuck in the world than the one Bucky has foolishly hung his heart on, he dreads ever meeting them.(War changes people, some in a more literal sense than others. Bucky tries his best to stay a decent man despite it all.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Peggy Carter, James "Bucky" Barnes/Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 15
Kudos: 40
Collections: Holly Poly 2020





	While there's life, there's hope.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CloudAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/gifts).



> Dear CloudAtlas, I hope you like this.
> 
> Thank you to my #1 cheerleader. You know who you are.
> 
> Inkvoices is the most amazing beta of them all.
> 
> Historical sources listed in bottom notes.

It's late when Clifton Airfield finally fades into the darkness behind them. After the drone of the airplane, the noise of the car that takes them into York itself is as soothing as the purr of a newborn kitten. Bucky's jaw stings with the reminder of how fast he shaved, how little time they were given to jump into fresh uniforms before they were whisked away into town. On the seat next to him, Steve fidgets with the cuff of his glove. Bucky can tell he misses the shield on his arm like a limb and knows that he hates to leave it behind, even if it is in Howard's trustworthy hands.

Furlough is a luxury, for sure. A luxury bought by the Stars and Stripes peeking out from underneath the less conspicuous brown standard issue wool coat that strains across Steve's broad shoulders. The uniform is freshly laundered, crumbed up as nicely as the man himself; all ugly proof of potential enemy contact erased from this shining beacon of hope and freedom. Not a single spot remains on the pristine white in Captain America's uniform and nothing but clean perfection in the neat parting of his hair; blond and bright and as beautiful as the wheatfields in the war bond posters.

Bucky drags his eyes away.

Outside the window, all of the buildings that they drive past have blackout curtains nailed down tight, as befits a city surrounded by some of the most vital air force bases of the War. The lack of life in the streets with their smatterings of _Dig for Victory!_ signs looking even more eerily dead.

The R&R is not a favour. That much is obvious as soon as the private who's playing chauffeur has let them off in front of another closed shop front. A corporal in a rumpled RAF uniform leads them down a set of the stairs to the side of the closed main doors.

It's almost palpable, the shock, awe and _hope_ that jumps like sparks down a live wire from person to person when Steve takes off that coat in the basement of _Bettie's Café_ and the dim light catches on his mock uniform underneath. An immediate cheer sweeps through the vast array of assembled airmen, deafening in the enclosed space.

Hats are flying and bouncing off the low ceiling, hands are reaching out, and questions in an incomprehensible barrage of words rain down on the legend that is _Captain America,_ now ringed by pilots and personnel of all allied nations.

Bucky is pushed aside by the onslaught, feeling like nothing more than a shadow next to Steve who, even in the gloom of shaded lamps, manages to make his bond-sale smile as bright as on any stage. People are crying out for drinks and some of them finally take note of Cap's companion, recognizing Bucky Barnes by association from the newsreels and propaganda films. There's a drink in his hand before he knows it and people are urging them over to a large mirror where hundreds of imperfections turn out to be names scratched into the glass.

At least three different people offer Steve their knife to add his own name to the impromptu memento. After, the crowd slowly settles, making space for the two of them in a corner that must mark the best seats and assuring them that tonight their drinks shall never run low.

Bucky tries not to think too much about what it feels like to see both his and Steve's names on that mirror, surrounded by a circle that may be Cap's shield but could also be a small space of their own among the madness of it all.

Last orders comes around, yet nobody wants to be first to leave, even if most everybody must be expected back on one of the surrounding bases sooner rather than later. Around them, people are muttering about how the curfew here shouldn't be as strict as in other parts of the country, especially not when a hero like the good Captain graces them with his presence and morale sure has been lifted by-

Bucky stops listening as a sudden murmur runs through the assembled crowd.

At the bottom of the stairs leading back to the first floor, a female senior officer has arrived. Even in a standard tommy uniform Carter’s torpedo figure and chestnut curls still mean she's a stunner. And, here on her home territory, this lady is instantly recognized, more so than an unexpected show pony like Steve. 

Bucky gives his friend's boot a kick under the table.

The whole room falls silent as Steve looks up and meets Carter's eye across the short space.

If Bucky hadn't already been aware that the newsreels have been milking every opportunity to show that grainy close-up of her picture in Steve's compass then the crowd's reaction would have been proof enough.

"Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes," she addresses the two of them in that crisp no-nonsense tone with a poker-faced nod and, God, if that doesn't make more than one man itch to stand at attention. "Sorry to cut your leave short, but there's a situation that requires your immediate attention."

Somewhere at the back of the basement a wolf-whistle breaks off in a fit of coughing, likely interrupted by a swift elbow to the ribs.

Carter doesn't move, waiting patiently until they've said their hasty goodbyes and drained their last drinks. It'd be disrespectful to leave anything in their glasses, as rare as such things are under rationing and their hosts having refused to take any recompense at all from _Captain America_.

As expected, both Carter and Steve are the very picture of decorum, saluting each other like strangers under many spectating pairs of eyes. Then Steve leads the way out, with his ugly regulation coat once more hiding the bright patriotic colors. Bucky follows, putting himself in the middle of the trio, as it's good manners for a gentleman to go upstairs ahead of a lady rather than after so he isn't in a position to ogle her behind. He wonders idly if Carter is watching _his_ backside from her decorous place at the rear.

No words are exchanged until they hit the frigid night air. The sensation of rising from the warmer basement, mixed with strong British beer on an always-hungry stomach, makes Bucky feel as close to swacked as he's rarely managed since his stint at Hydra's leisure in Italy.

With brisk strides, Carter takes off across the road and into the driver's seat of an offroad service vehicle, turning over the motor without delay.

Bucky hesitates.

As if Steve has a special sense for Bucky's inner turmoil - and if Steve hadn't already been an empathetic nuisance like that long before the war Bucky'd gladly blame it on the serum - he turns back with one hand already on the door.

Forget about the spangly suit, about the shield, and even about the juiced-up physique. It's the puppy eyes that will always be Steve's most effective weapon when it comes to Bucky.

"Think I might try and find another drink," Bucky says, shoulders drawn high. He jams one hand deeply into his pocket and points the thumb of the other back the way they've come.

Those pleading baby-blues turn disapproving for a second, then insecure. They both know Steve's thinking of The Conversation. The one they had after Steve's last sugar report told him about the letter Bucky sent to Carter. Bucky himself can't remember the contents too well. It'd been his first miserable attempt post-Azzano at complete and utter inebriation and successful only long enough to make an ass of himself via long-distance v-mail.

"Go with her already, Stevie," he says now, trying to paste a believable smile on his face. "You don't need me to hold your hand in this."

What Bucky _does_ know about the letter is that he tried to do the honorable thing of setting Steve free. Tried to be sensible about the fact that, whatever kept happening between them while they were still living in Brooklyn together, they've inevitably grown up. He's tried to make the man see that Carter is the best thing to ever happen to him, hands down, and not worth losing over some misplaced childhood affection neither Steve nor Bucky have ever really gotten over. Not that Steve would see it that way.

Truth be told, if there’s a more stubborn fuck in the world than the one Bucky has foolishly hung his heart on, Bucky dreads ever meeting them.

"Barnes," Carter interrupts his wallowing, " _save fuel for battle!_ I can't keep idly burning petrol forever here. Bloody well get in the car."

Steve pulls open the door and pointedly raises an eyebrow at him.

Despite knowing better, Bucky bloody well gets in the car.

It's too dark and he's too preoccupied with his own nerves to pay much attention to where Carter is taking them. All he knows is that it can't be a long drive considering the time it took them to get into town from the airfield, that Steve's sitting as far away from him as is possible in a shared backseat, and that cobblestones are clearly not just a thing in Charles Dickens' tales.

Speaking of which, he's regretting not bringing anything to read.

There's no doubt in his mind that he's about to spend the night doing his best impression of an alibi chaperone while somewhere nearby - but hopefully not _too_ near - Steve and Carter will be getting reacquainted.

If his gut is churning at the thought of his friend's happiness, Bucky will steadfastly blame it on the quality of last night's rations.

The house they pull up at looks just like the rest of Europe to him, nothing distinguishing the brick facade from its neighbours. Carter stows away the car underneath something that might be camouflage netting, but it's hard to make out in the gloom, which probably means it serves its purpose well.

Inside, like everywhere, Carter moves with brisk efficiency as she switches on a small lamp, but her relief at having a locked door behind them is still noticeable. While Steve stays rooted to the middle of the front room, probably already undressing her with his eyes, Bucky makes a point of viewing the pictures lining the walls as he meanders towards what turns out to be a cozy little sitting room.

Glum black and white depictions of interestingly bent trees and gnarled shapes of nature, interspersed with a few fading sepia-toned portraits. Predominantly of a solemn-faced lady, here sat in a photographer's studio framed by two tidy children, there with a man who's likely to be her husband. At a second glance, something about the husband's stern expression echoes Agent Carter as does the questioning set of the girl-child's brow and Bucky wonders just whose house this might be. It's not been a home for a while, of that he's certain, a noticeable layer of dust covering every picture indiscriminately.

"Make yourselves at home, gents," Carter addresses them with stilted cheerfulness, placing her jacket and hat on the coat rack. "Bathroom's through there and we have a small air raid shelter in the backyard." She shudders. "Thank heavens we haven't needed it so far." 

If Bucky didn't know her as an entirely unflappable, battle-tried agent, he'd swear the way she smooths down her hair twice in a row says that she's nervous.

"I'll go put the kettle on," she says, jutting out her chin as if she's going on a mission rather than for refreshments and giving Steve a look that betrays a complicated mix of emotions. "Steve, would you be so kind and give me a hand?"

Bucky takes that as his queue and drags his heavy heart into the sitting-room where he flops into an armchair, his hat raising a puff of dust as he tosses it on a side table.

There's unsurprisingly little actual noises of crockery coming from the kitchen at the end of the hall and Bucky slumps down lower, morosely staring up at a lonely spider thread dangling from the dusty electrical chandelier.

It's not exactly warm in the house, but ever since Italy that's been bothering him less, a fact he attests to the psychological after-effects of torture at the hands of a nazi nutjob. If anyone were to ask him, Bucky guesses that his body knows it's seen worse than a few degrees below ideal thermal comfort and has decided to no longer make a fuss about that type of thing.

From the direction of the kitchen, there's the noise of wood scraping on stone, as if somebody harshly jostled a large table across the floor.

Bucky's heart clenches and he closes his eyes for just a little bit.

An indeterminate amount of time later, the soft touch of a hand on his arm wakes him and he comes up fighting, same way he always seems to do lately.

Strong hands catch his flailing limbs and a calm voice he knows better than his own shushes his terrors.

"Just me," Steve reassures him. 

It takes a second for Bucky to make out his face in the gloom, with only the single lamp on out in the hall.

"Air-raid...?" Bucky asks, heart still hammering from kickstarting awake, realizing as the words leave his mouth that he's hearing no sirens. Steve's eyes soften and his hand slides up to where Bucky's neck joins his shoulder; familiar, grounding, and so much larger than it has any right to be.

"No, pal. You're safe. Let's get you to bed." 

He tucks both hands under Bucky's armpits and just lifts him to his feet and this manhandling - they are going to have to talk about that because it's not decent for a grown man to let himself be picked up by another man like that as if he were a swooning dame. For dignity's sake, if naught else.

Steve misjudges his strength, or maybe Bucky is more asleep than he initially thought. Either way, momentum propels him forward until their chests touch and his face is right there at home against Steve's collarbone. While at the back of Bucky's mind the dreaded fear of getting caught is screaming about the prospect of a blue ticket or worse, his traitorous body reacts to Steve's proximity as it has always done. 

Maybe dignity is overrated.

There is a different note mingled in with the well-known scent of Steve's skin, but before Bucky can consider this further strong arms close around him and a gentle kiss alights on his temple. After spending so much time convincing himself he'd never feel that again, now that Carter is back on the scene, it's all Bucky can do to cling to Steve's waist to keep his knees from giving out. He can hate himself come morning; for now he will enjoy the stolen moment of being in Steve's arms for one last time.

Steve nudges him after far too little time has passed, leaning close enough to whisper for Bucky's ears only, "You must know that I love you."

Bucky huffs something that even he can't distinguish as either desperate gratefulness or an affronted laugh at the possibility of his ignorance. Not trusting his voice not to embarrass him further, he simply nods against Steve's shoulder, tightening the circle of his arms.

"Do you trust me?" There's a curious, wavering tone to Steve's voice, as if he himself is fighting some internal battle.

"How can you even ask that?" Bucky says, leaning only far enough back to search Steve's face.

For a second he thinks Steve will argue - because when has he ever not had to have the last word about anything - but instead he leans down and swiftly presses such an intense, close-mouthed kiss to his lips that it leaves Bucky reeling.

He's still a little dazed when he lets Steve take his hand and lead him towards the stairs. All the nervousness has just melted off the guy and it’s nobody less than the infamous _man with a plan_ dragging Bucky up to the second floor now. On quiet soles, they pass a single other dim lamp on the landing and turn a corner into a room dominated by a wide bed. It's swathed in shadows, like everything else.

Desperate and confused, Bucky refuses to succumb to worrying thoughts. The second Steve leans back in for another kiss he returns it with interest. Fingers trip over buttons as he is efficiently shelled out of his uniform. His own hands nimbly seek out the hidden latches and ties that keep the red, white, and blues together. They leave their clothes in haphazard, if sensibly separate, piles - nobody wants to be found searching for their drawers when the sirens go off after all - and, with a cunning trip-and-shove combo, Steve lands gloriously naked on top of the already rumpled sheets.

Bucky is on top of him right away, pouring into his kisses all the pent-up, desperate longing of a man who knows it might be his last chance to do so.

The ease with which he can orient himself in the dark is only a fleeting thought amidst the sensation of finally feeling planes of hard muscle and smooth skin against his own. All quips about how different this body is compared to the one he used to know fly right out of his head when he deftly reaches lower and Steve makes a beautiful noise that makes Bucky's throat tighten painfully in nostalgic recognition.

"Wait, Buck, stop..." Steve can hardly get the words out between the desperate and hungry kisses that are bestowed on him. He cradles Bucky's jaw in both hands and kisses his forehead before forcing him up to meet his eyes. "Wait," Steve repeats with emphasis, his chest heaving with the effort of sticking to his own request.

"This... I didn't think we'd be this fast to- I'm sorry. I... God, it's been so long since- I'd forgotten how much I- Maybe I didn't think this all the way through," he says, worry back in his voice and face turned away. 

Bucky doesn't understand. He hardly remembers a time when their intimacy _wasn't_ rushed and urgent, much less one when they had the comfort of down pillows. An almost somnambulistic sense of inherent safety falls away as he realizes with sudden and shocking clarity that less than an arm's length away, what he perceived to be pushed together covers, begins to move.

Despite Steve's grip tightening, Bucky sits up, kneeling either side of Steve's hips only to be frozen in place by the shock of seeing Carter's arm emerging from underneath the thick quilted comforter. Her expression is hidden among the pitch-black of shadowed pillows, but her searching hand meets the unmistakable circumference of Steve's bicep and glides along his arm towards his elbow. A wave of gooseflesh runs from Bucky's head to his toes when she follows its lines all the way to where Steve's hand has come to rest proprietarily high on Bucky's thigh.

Even with only the shimmer from the upstairs landing as a guide, the position of Steve’s hand itself is, without a doubt, illuminating.

"Buck?" Steve whispers, and he sounds smaller than he ever did when he was still an asthmatic twig of a man. Why Steve would bring him here of all places, Bucky can't fathom; why Carter hasn't shot either of them, even less.

"I don't understand," Bucky admits truthfully and, with a sigh, Carter sits up.

"I told you we couldn't forego talking entirely," she states, and Bucky comes to the realization that Steve's earlier babble of words was meant for _Carter_ rather than him.

The sheets fall all the way down and if Bucky was petrified of the situation before there’s no way he can even _attempt_ putting his emotions into words now.

_Carter is naked._

And, like his brain very helpfully reminds him, so are he and Steve. Which begs the question just what exactly they've been doing while Bucky was asleep, and why on Earth Steve would bring him into this.

"Barnes-" Carter interrupts his inner panic for the second time that night, then stops, takes a deep breath, and starts over. "Know what? I'm going to go ahead and call you James from now on, because otherwise this," she says, gesturing vaguely at the constellation of the three of them. "becomes even more ridiculous a situation than it already is."

Bucky, torn between admiring her calm in the face of nudity and the sudden desire to turn tail and run, mumbles a vague affirmative in regards to the name.

"By my utter lack of surprise here, you've probably already guessed that Steve has let me in on the nature of your relationship," Peggy - he's not calling her Carter if she's suddenly decided they're all going to be friends now - continues and now Bucky really wants to be anywhere but astride Steve's naked body. " _However_ ," she goes on pointedly, as he disentangles himself and retreats to the far end of the bed, "the fact that I _am_ here, in this frankly scandalous state of undress rather than judging either of you on it, should also tell you something."

A hysterical laugh fights its way up Bucky's throat when he watches her move towards him as if he’s a spooked animal, crossing the short distance on the mattress on all fours. The deeply set shadows allow only glimpses at the gentle sway of her breasts, but Bucky has always been weak for that particular attribute and, without his permission, his body takes notice.

"At least hear us out," Steve pleads, sitting up opposite him and against the headboard, as if it's not utter lunacy to try and have any kind of conversation now, naked and in a bed together with his sweetheart.

Peggy's crawl ends at Bucky's drawn-up knees and from there she leans up to rest her hands on his shoulders, which isn't helping with his gentlemanly attempt to keep his eyes firmly on safe territory. At all.

"Personally, I've alway thought that actions speak louder than words," she observes, as if talking about the weather. 

Pleasant shivers run down Bucky's spine as her fingers trace the lines of his throat until she’s caressing his jaw with both hands, a gentler and more hesitant touch than Steve's barely contained passion earlier.

"James," she whispers, close enough for her breath to ghost across his skin, head angled in inviting counterpoint to his own. "I dare say that to us, who have known Steve since before his transformation, there's now enough of him to share, don't you agree? God knows he's too stubborn for one of us to handle by ourselves."

The involuntary laugh this startles out of him makes their lips brush for the briefest electric instant and Bucky fights the overwhelming compulsion to take her by the hips, draw her into his lap, and kiss that clever smile off of her.

"This doesn't _have_ to go any further than right here, right now," Steve chimes in with a stricken tone, clearly as affected as Bucky himself, and somehow that knowledge is the final piece that breaks Bucky’s resolve. Because the implication here is that it _could,_ that _he_ could, for however long, have Steve and, for whatever reason, Car- _Peggy,_ too. 

Deep inside Bucky, a dormant spark of hope ignites into a bonfire of want in his chest.

Simultaneously grateful for and cursing the darkness that hides almost all nonverbal cues from the conversation, he bites his lip, unsure of how to proceed. Plucking up his courage, he reaches out for the first time and, with better aim than the sparse light should permit him, brushes soft waves of hair from Peggy's face.

"So what's in it for you? You're willing to indulge the depravity for Steve?" he asks, caught somewhere between bitterness and longing, winding the surprisingly silky strands of hair around and around his fingers and chastising himself silently for imagining them fanned across his thighs.

Peggy laughs, low and pleasant, and with what must be genuine amusement.

"You poor lamb. If you think that I would do anything _remotely_ like this if it wasn't also entirely self-indulgent you truly must be as dumb as you are pretty." 

Before Bucky has time to unpack that statement she's kissing him, no less demanding than Steve was earlier.

Maybe she was right and talking is overrated, for this time he gets the message loud and clear. There is nothing that can hold Peggy Carter back from what she wants and, right now, what she wants is them. From behind her, Bucky hears Steve curse as he gets with the program, willingly leaving the reins in her hands.

She laughs into Bucky’s kiss, teasing him into chasing her lips and rewarding him sweetly when he catches her. When he cracks one sly eye open, Steve is still just sitting there, the enraptured way he's looking at them reminding Bucky of that first time they snuck into the pictures on 5th Avenue.

"Oh no, Peggy, look," he jokes weakly, the name still foreign on his tongue. He encourages her to turn around and guides her to sit comfortably with her back against his chest. "I know that face. Steve's got something on his mind..."

It's true, Steve does look like he's about to say something, maybe insist again that they talk this through before anything more happens. But Bucky can't let that happen. The hard rock of anxiety that still sits in the pit of his stomach knows that this thing, whatever it is, is too good to be true, and that they have just this one shot to surpass the inherent awkwardness.

Either this is the beginning or the end of something, and Bucky will be damned if he doesn't give it his all to make sure that it's the former. And since it's not his _words_ that Bucky considers his most compelling argument...

He tugs Peggy closer, meeting Steve's eyes square on. Brow raised in challenge, he reaches around to hold her against him, his lips gentler on her cheek than his hands are where they cup her breasts.

Peggy lets her head fall back onto his shoulder with a content sigh, pushing forward into his caress.

"What is it Steve?" She stretches a long, pale leg towards him and rests the sole of her foot against his knee, successfully tickling him out of whatever overly serious mood has befallen him. "Are you feeling inspired to hold a rousing speech about love and friendship?"

Bucky laughs and pinches one of her nipples in reward, then returns to enjoying the full weight of her breast filling his palm and finally rekindling what was so rudely interrupted before.

"Don't make me regret this by ganging up on me," Steve says with a smirk, easily spanning her ankle with one hand and holding it in place. Unbothered, Peggy takes her other foot to his second knee and tickles him again with her toes.

His free hand traps that one as well.

"Dear me," Peggy deadpans, raising an arm to wind around Bucky's neck and tug playfully on his hair, "you caught me. Now what in the world are you going to do with me?"

Even though the look isn't even aimed at him, Bucky feels himself harden fully at the expression that crosses Steve's face. Predictably failing to resist any challenge that’s ever crossed his path since 1922, Steve’s hands slide up Peggy's shins torturously slow, pushing them gently but insistently wider with every passing inch. Closely entwined as they are, Bucky feels her breath hitch, her calm demeanor crumbling to reveal an even more enticing, hungrier expression.

Steve leans in, placing kisses high on the inside of her thighs, and when he glances up to meet Bucky's mesmerized gaze the only shared thought between them must be _Why haven't we done this any sooner?_

The borders of where one ends and the others begin turn hazy for a while as they trade kisses and soon so much more than that.

While the tune may be new, the dance is an old one and, somehow, even if it's been a while for Bucky, he easily falls back into its steps.

For the first time since he left New York, Bucky feels safe, and home, and loved.

By the time Peggy falls asleep between them, the sun must be rising behind the safety of the blackout curtains.At least some of the deep worry lines around Steve's eyes seem to have lost definition and Bucky finds himself wondering whether, given enough time, the serum could make him appear entirely carefree one day. He hopes they'll all live to see the day. 

"Have I broken us?" Steve asks quietly. 

Bucky looks over at him across Peggy's naked back.

"Never," he replies without hesitation. He reaches out a hand and Steve links their fingers together, resting their joined hands on Peggy's hip. "'Till the end of the line, remember?"

"And her?" Steve asks, the mix of fondness and worry in his voice undeniable.

Bucky watches the soft, even rise and fall of Peggy's shoulders, the relaxed lines of her face, and messy tangle of hair. He draws the sheets higher with his free hand to cover them all and, inside the cocoon of its warmth, he finds Steve and Peggy's hand both. 

"'Till the end of the line," he repeats. "Nobody ever said we'd have to go by ourselves."

**Author's Note:**

> Facts about York were taken from [here](http://www.historyofyork.org.uk/themes/20th-century/second-world-war-york). 
> 
> Wonder what a wheatfield in a war bond poster looked like? [Click here](https://dyn1.heritagestatic.com/lf?set=path%5B1%2F9%2F7%2F7%2F6%2F19776769%5D%2Csizedata%5B850x600%5D&call=url%5Bfile%3Aproduct.chain%5D).
> 
> There's some WWII army lingo sprinkled into this fic.  
>  Crumb Up - To get a haircut, shoeshine, freshly pressed shirt, etc., in preparation for an inspection.  
>  Monkey Clothes - Full dress uniform.  
>  Sugar Report - A letter from a girl  
>  Swacked - Intoxicated.  
>  Torpedo Figure - A woman with a good figure.
> 
> which I found [here](https://www.artofmanliness.com/articles/wwii-slang/).
> 
> Looking for a film theatre old enough for Bucky and Steve to have snuck into, I learned that **Alpine Cinema** on 5th Avenue in Bay Ride, Brooklyn has been in the movie business since 1921. You can't make this shit up.


End file.
